"Do not remain any longer out of doors, Count," he said to Ludovic, with a thoroughly paternal anxiety. "I can understand all the pleasure you of course feel in galloping by the side of that madcap, Dolores; but you do not know this country, and may lose your way. Moreover, the roads are at this moment infested with marauders belonging to all the parties that divide the unhappy republic; and these pícaros have no more scruple in firing at a gentleman, than in killing a coyote."
"I believe your fears are exaggerated, sir: we have had a delightful ride, and nothing of a suspicious nature has occurred to trouble it."
While conversing, they proceeded to the dining hall, where dinner was served up. The meal was silent, as usual, save that the ice seemed to be broken between the young lady and young man; and—what they had never done before—they now talked together!
Don Melchior was gloomy and restrained, as usual, and ate without saying a word; only now and then, evidently astonished at the good understanding that seemed to prevail between his sister and the French gentleman, he turned his head toward them, giving them glances of a singular expression; but the young people feigned not to remark them, and continued their conversation in a low voice. Don Andrés was radiant. In his joy he spoke loudly, addressed everybody, and ate and drank heartily. When they rose from table, Ludovic checked the old gentleman, as they were taking leave.
"Pardon me," he said; "but I should like a word with you."
"I am at your orders," don Andrés replied.
"Good heavens! I do not know how to explain it to you, sir. I am afraid I have acted rather lightly, and have committed an offence against propriety."
"You, Count!" don Andrés remarked, with a smile; "You will permit me not to believe it."
"I thank you for the good opinion you have of me; still I must make you the judge of what I have done."
"In that case, be kind enough to explain yourself."